


The Night is (Not) for Riding

by oisiflaneur



Category: Samurai Jack (Cartoon)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 19:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10669707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oisiflaneur/pseuds/oisiflaneur
Summary: She has that smile again. The one that makes his heart skip a beat, but in the same way it does when he dreams that he's stepping onto the bottom of the staircase and feels the floor give way, right before he wakes in a cold sweat.





	The Night is (Not) for Riding

**Author's Note:**

> this is absolutely in no way what i thought would come out of my sj rewatch, but……… that one episode, y'all. i don't think i will ever be over aku only waiting for half of the first season before trying to seduce his mortal enemy. this takes place over the course of episode six, _jack and the warrior woman_ , because it could literally be titled _jack and the sexy sword lady_ instead. also like... how do i even tag this pairing. what is ikra's gender. femme evil???
> 
>  **content warnings** are the age warning 'cause it gets to be smutty, dubious consent due to false identities, some pretty nongraphic mentions of violence, and spoilers for that episode. and some very vague sj lore by association.
> 
> my general writing tag is [here](http://oisiflaneur.tumblr.com/tagged/graywrites) for drabbles and news!

The samurai curses himself inwardly for allowing himself to be caught offguard, for allowing his sword to be knocked out of his reach. It's a foolish mistake, an amateur mistake, and one that he shouldn't have lived to repeat.

But the warrior woman swoops in at precisely the right moment, darting to place her own blade between him and the scouts' weaponry with a reverberating _clang_. When she opens her mouth to berate him, her voice is deeper than he expected, and it finally shakes him from his daze.

_"About time."_

Something about her seems eerily familiar, but he can't put his finger on what it is, exactly. Maybe that's why he's so suspicious of her, why he demands information from her before he even expresses gratitude. Her reaction humbles him, and reminds him that not _every single_ creature in Aku's realm must be his enemy. 

Having benefitted from her interference, Jack feels that it's only fair to offer her his own assistance. After all, she doesn't seem to have anywhere else to go. For the first day, he lets her lead the way into the dunes, staring at the horizon instead of her back.

* * *

Around the fire at night, the silence is comfortable. In fact, he's startled when she breaks it, especially when it's to share her own history. She gives him her name -- _Ikra_ , it's unfamiliar and yet somehow lovely -- and then her story, weaving the shape of the fire to illustrate it.

Her trickery with the flames impresses him; it's harmless enough. There are many forms of magic in this world. That, at the very least, has never changed. A product of magic himself in this epoch, he's learned not to judge its various uses.

And her story, of the demon ripping her away from her father, rings all too familiar. Jack can feel his chest tighten at the description of the poor man's fate, and decides ( even before he offers aloud ) that he will do whatever he can to help her.

* * *

At the beginning of their journey, they have two tents. They follow the sun's path, ever forward, stopping to rest when the moon rises and confirms their heading.

She teaches him to ride. Thankfully, he's not at such a huge disadvantage, having learned in his own era to ride horses, camels, and even the rare donkey. But the interim years are many in number, and evolution is no longer the only shaping force on earth. These creatures -- uklas, she calls them -- are similar enough to the native fauna that he grasps the basics swiftly; but the languages they've been trained in are completely foreign.

But _she_ knows how to make them respond, and imparts the wisdom, as the need arises. The _hut-hut-hut_ that makes them jolt into action, the _tsssssssssssk_ that tells them to slow to a halt. The bits and reins seem to work in essentially the same way that he's accustomed to, which is _one_ small blessing, at the very least. But he supposes that yanking any creature's head back would make them stop what they were doing.

Not that they take many opportunities to slow down. They follow the sun's path. Ever forward.

* * *

The obstacles in their way are miniscule compared to what he has already endured. He tells himself this often, especially when the sun is at its zenith, and holding his sleeve over his forehead does little to stop his eyes from burning with the brightness of the surrounding sands.

The monsters in their way are far easier for him to deal with than the heat. He has _much_ more practice with those.

He's seen her take out Aku's robot guards, and several small monsters in their travels. He knows she can defend herself. But when a huge beast grabs her and swallows her in one gulp, he still worries for her safety, launching towards the enemy. He's been in similar situations, he knows that if he can cut its belly open she shouldn't have gone too long without oxygen--

But then there's a sound that he knows all too well, a _shing_ ing kind of slice, and the opponent is beheaded cleanly. 

And _then_ there's Ikra, standing tall from the hollow of its throat with eyes narrowed and mouth downturned; her free hand making an irritable fist at her side, the other holding her blade aloft as it drips stomach acid.

The scent of bile clings to her for several hours, without the blessing of water available for her to rinse off. Jack chuckles at first, but her mount is the swifter between the two, and he's forced to ride downwind for most of the day, following the wake of the stench.

It's offputting, of course, but it occurs to him that the stink does little to diminish the view.

* * *

Eventually, the beasts begin to tire. Day by day, they make less progress, despite the creatures having been bred for endurance. Day by day, the sun is further from the horizon when they have to stop and make camp.

"It makes little sense." She says calmly, as though she isn't still astride the very animal she's discussing; Jack hopes silently that it isn't intelligent enough to understand her. It can barely keep pace beside his, hooves dragging lines in the sand, eyestalks hanging low and heavylidded. "I know that _I_ could certainly make better time that this thing. All that they're doing now is conserving our energy, and we recover well enough at night. Surely we would be faster on foot at this point."

When they finally agree that they have no choice but to leave the uklas behind, Jack wants to send them back towards civilization.

"Perhaps someone will find them, and return them?" He suggests gently, optimistically, trying to reason with her. He knows that this is, as they say, a long shot. 

The look she gives him is answer enough.

"If they're found, they'll be stolen. There are far better uses that we can put them to." The disdain is heavy in her voice, but she doesn't berate him further. Instead, she simply pulls out a blade and shoots a small smile his way.

That coy smirk she was sporting fades when it's splattered with blood. Tongue sticking out at the side of her mouth with concentration, she chops at the creature without regard for the gore. 

She butchers the one that _she_ had been riding, perhaps as some kind of punishment for flagging faster than the other.

Ikra is clever enough to do the deed after the sun has set, after the uklas have brought them as far as they can before tiring. She's clever enough to do it when the animals are tired, and they are both rested and fresh. At the very least, the arid nights are only chilly, and not freezing. No need to take its hide.

As she said; there are far better uses they can put it to.

She'd cut into it with an enthusiasm that isn't matched when the time comes to eat it. She picks at the meal, barely keeping her mouth from twisting. He thinks that maybe she didn't fully realize the implications until now, and like him, is having trouble consuming something tame, that trusted her. It’s not squeamishness -- he hunts, after all. He's eaten pigs and chickens bred for the purpose, as well as hares and even lizards that ran from the sight of him. But it's somehow different from the prospect of eating livestock: not as unsettling as the idea of eating a pet, and yet it doesn't sit right with him. Maybe it's because it seems a poor reward for carrying the two of them this far.

Still, he manages to swallow a few mouthfuls, and thanks her for doing the dirty work.

* * *

They share a mount, but only briefly. Jack finds himself wishing more fervently than ever that they'd had access to a set of proper camels, which would have at least one hump to separate them. The slope of the ukla's back is less dramatic, and leaves Ikra clinging close to him, arms flung around his waist, whenever the animal struggles up the loose sands of a particularly high dune. And, the further into the desert that they venture, the higher and more dramatic the sweeps and swirls of the landscape are.

The remaining ukla lasts a mere day longer than its companion. By the time the sun starts to set, its own hooves are kicking up tiny mounds of sand instead of leaving shallow prints.

So, she repeats the ritual the next night. Slice, skin, section off. Discard the innards. Cut the muscle into strips. Pierce them with charred sticks, and place them around the fire to smoke. She does all of it casually, from lopping off its head to preparing the meat.

He has to admit, she knows how to survive in the wilderness.

The blood bothers him only a fraction less, this time. Unlike her, he doubts he could get used to it.

It’s true that their rations have been starting to be spread thin, and there’s little in the way of game in the desert. But Jack has grown accustomed to ignoring hunger by now. It's become nothing more than a dull ache and a mild pressure behind his eyes. A few handfuls of water and a slice of bread usually satiate him in times far more plentiful than this: he can, and _will_ , subsist until he reaches his goal. 

If anything, it seems to affect her even less. With a regularity and insistence that manage to surprise and humble him, she insists on giving him the larger portions. Whether it's a fraction of the scant packed vittles, or a newly roasted sandsnake, or the freshest meat from their former mounts. He almost wants to ask how many years she studied with the monks, to be able to go even longer than he can without food. But the last thing he wants is to press her for information, when she volunteered so much so readily.

He protests the division of sustenance at first, but her determination matches his. Eventually, he learns to eat his allotment in silence, and put the leftovers aside for her breakfast. She gives him what he _hopes_ is a grateful smile, and takes a few bites of her own meal while he picks at his.

It doesn't escape his notice that when they break camp for the morning, she dumps the leftovers into the sand.

* * *

Around the fire, the conversation comes easily. And when it doesn't, the atmosphere is comfortable, neither of them feeling the need to fill the silence. Jack appreciates that she doesn't press him to talk; and maybe he's just imagining it, but he gets the feeling that she's grateful for his own lack of questions.

There are many, in full truthfulness. But he doesn't want to risk sacrificing what they have at the moment. It's been so, _so_ long since he found himself able to simply… Talk. Just about the events of the day, or a stray thought, or even the weather. They chat, and it feels _easy_ , and he can hardly remember the last time that he had that.

The need for any tent at all is long behind them. Both of them sleep beneath the stars, stretched out on the sand; or, in Ikra's case, the train of her dress. He makes a habit of rolling over so that his back is to her, so as not to stare.

* * *

She seems startled by how just warmly they're welcomed when they stumble across the nomads' camp. Having been greeted in similar ways before, Jack takes his hand from the hilt of his sword fairly swiftly. But for Ikra, it takes several hours for her to relax her guard, and when she finally does, she only indulges in a scant smile and few sips from the goblet she's offered. 

He catches her gingerly pluck from the platter before her an appetizer wrapped in fig leaf, take a single bite, and drop it back onto the plate with a foul expression. It gets a subdued chuckle out of him, casting his gaze away and covering his mouth to hide the smile.

But still, it's nice to do something other than run over the sand as the sun beats down. He could never stay long like this; hiding from the elements beneath woven hair and silk. But it makes a pleasant diversion from the usual fare. 

He doesn't spare a glance for any of the leader's concubines. Jack has never been one to be distracted by women ( with, it crosses his mind, one exception, now ). And besides, their show of skin isn't intended for him. Simply a part of the backdrop.

At least, that's what he assumes, at first.

When the sheik claps and the dancers are brought before them -- first the woman, and then the man in similar garb -- he and Ikra glance at each other uncertainly, before both are forced to stifle a giggle. It's hardly dignified, or even polite. But it seems that the _both_ of them find the entertainment equally extraneous. They smile blandly through the performance, and nod graciously as they express their gratitude and make their way out of the tent.

They laugh about it after they leave, and it seems that neither of them is sure who _exactly_ the dancers were meant for.

* * *

In the soft light of the customarily small bonfire they've lit, Jack finds himself staring. It probably should unnerve him more that her skin is green, but he's already seen so many things that were _so_ much stranger. In fact, a number of the women in the tent had been green, or blue, or orange. But they hadn't held his attention like this. There's just something about the particular shade of her skin. He could find a word for it in japanese, but it escapes him now.

"So… Jack." She still says his name as though it feels foreign on her tongue; he doesn't bother to correct her. It took him some time to grow accustomed to it, too. "Why are you helping me? I've seen you fight, and I _doubt_ you have dire need of a companion to get you to your destination."

He turns the question over in his mind for a long moment, arranging the words carefully before speaking. "Because I know what it is like to lose your family to Aku. No one else should have to suffer that."

Ikra stopped sitting across from him some nights ago, slowly seating herself closer and closer; so she doesn't have far to reach to cover his hand in her own. "Do you? You've shared little of yourself, but I suppose that you and half the empire must have a tale similar to mine." It's true. Despite her sharing her story on the first evening, he hasn't exactly opened up.

"Aku's evil reaches far and spares few." He shares with her the rare, wry smile, bringing his other hand to pat hers. "And yet, there are few tales like mine. My family was lost many hundreds of years ago."

"Truly, he is most powerful." She sighs wistfully, turning to stare into the fire. She doesn't seem perplexed by the implication of his age. "I doubt that anyone can defeat him and end his reign."

" _I_ can." Jack says with certainty. Leaning towards her, his face turns serious, just bordering on a scowl. "I promise you, we will reach our goal, get your father back, and _undo_ Aku's evil rule."

"Oh, _Jack._ " She practically whispers it, a smile dancing at the edge of her lips. "If anyone can succeed there, it's you."

And then her hand has left his, but only to trace along his jaw, turning his head for her to kiss him.

"Ikra…" Face flushing, Jack just barely manages not to roll backwards off his blanket when he reels back. "Thank you. You are most kind. But I do not fight against evil for a reward."

"Maybe this is _my_ reward." Her voice is even lower than usual, her eyes lidded as she slings a thigh over his lap. He finds himself staring at the dramatic line of inky black against green, lit almost yellow by the fire beside them; he thinks idly that they should tend it, or it'll die soon.

"Additionally… We aren't involved." He manages to stammer, his breath hitching as she grinds down against him. "It would not be proper… Especially to string you along when I cannot promise you anything _like_ that, anything beyond this night. I must leave this time as soon as possible. It simply wouldn't be fair… To either of us." His mission _always_ has to come first. 

He rarely regrets it as much as he does right now.

When she throws her head back and laughs, there's something harsh bubbling up under her voice. More like a cackle than a chuckle. "I'm not worried about _proper_. I've lived as a ghost in this land. _I_ have no reputation to speak of, and…" The hand on his cheek trails down his neck, to where his skin meets the hem of his clothes. "I won't tell anyone if you don't."

She splits his robe as though she's prying open a shellfish, as though she wants to reach through to get to his innards. One hand pawing at him, the other crawls up to let her hook her knuckles through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulled taut by the bun. His belt is unwound and pooled around his waist, his sleeves pulled down to bunch around his elbows, the edges of his gi pushed aside until the only thing between their skin are his underthings. He realizes with a small jolt that this is because she has no such extra layer.

Which she takes advantage of as soon as she's finished peeling his away, the hand not tangled in his hair reaching between them to stroke slowly down his shaft.

"... Just tonight, then?" His own hands cautiously settle at the curve of her waist, sliding down to find where her hipbones jut against her skin. "You're certain?" He tries, dragging his eyes up to look across her face. It's difficult, when the rest of her looks _so_ good.

She has that smile again. The one that makes his heart skip a beat; but in the same way it does when he dreams that he's stepping onto the bottom of the staircase and feels the floor give way, right before he wakes in a cold sweat. "Oh, I'm _quite_ certain about you, Jack." 

And -- as much as he wishes that it wasn't -- that confirmation is all he needs. Leaning forward to press a kiss to the side of her cheek, he draws his hands around her back and up her spine, reaching to try and curl his fingertips under the top of her dress.

When his fumbling doesn't stop after a moment that feels endless, Ikra sighs heavily and lets go of him to reach her hands behind her, fidgeting with it for him. He tries not to take it personally.

The garment falls off of her like water, or shadows, pooling behind her on his legs. Jack is too entranced to notice, staring at the soft play of shadows across her torso. The fire is _very_ low now. One of them should definitely see to that. Soon. Very soon.

The thought is chased from his mind as she settles back against him, bare but for her boots and gloves. Perhaps she likes the extra distance.

"There," she mutters, and wastes no more time before reaching between them again to hold him steady, dropping onto his cock in one short movement; it's swift, but jerky, because she has to stop after an inch or so. She lets out a small gasp when she does, her mouth contorting into an _o_ before she recovers, and looks at him with more annoyance than anything else.

"Wait--" He tries, one hand coming up to flatten against her navel, trying to hold her steady as the other still loosely rests against the small of her back. "It's alright. You can go slow."

She meets his eyes again, but it's to level a glare at him as she spreads her knees and sinks a little further. His own expression turns furrowed, concern apparent in every line as he watches her try to hide her grimace. 

" _Really_." As he tries to assure her, his other hand trails down the outside of her thigh, before curling around her knee to brush his knuckles against the interior. "May I?"

Her expression is still irritable and sour, but she manages a small nod before she turns her face away and sneers. " _Ridiculous_. I am a master of whatever I put my hands to."

"That may be true, but…" That _may_ be true, and he's almost certainly the greater novice here. But he at least knows enough to slide the pads of his fingers along the beginning of her slit, pressing against the flesh as he pushes his hand back. When he meets himself -- still barely inside her -- he twitches his fingers and drags them back, earning a heavy shudder from Ikra. "There. Isn't this better?"

It earns only the tiniest gasp. Her hands returning to his shoulders, she answers by rocking against his fingers. Something in her seems to unspool, the tension draining out of her limbs and spine curling towards him, and she sinks down a fraction more. The nearly inaudible sigh that she exhales just so _happens_ to be right next to his ear. That, coupled with the way her limbs are suddenly trembling, hits him harder even than the wet heat around the head of his cock. 

Still running his fingertips up against her clit with one hand, the other settles at the base of her spine to hold her steady as he stops being able to keep his hips still. And yet, he manages to stay slow, rocking against her gently as he kisses the curve of her shoulder. It takes more willpower than he knew he had within him. The pastel green of her collarbone turns dark emerald underneath his mouth, his teeth; but he never breaks the skin.

Which is more than he can say for her. Ikra has to twist and bend to reach him; but her teeth go from his earlobe, to the slope of his jaw, to the side of his neck, leaving a splattering of bruises as she does. And when she gasps and clenches around him, the fingernails in his back feel almost more like claws. 

But he simply takes it as a sign that he's doing well.

* * *

When she takes to the air, Jack is startled. Less so by the capability, and more so by the fact that she felt it necessary to hide it for so long; if he didn't call her a witch for manipulating flames without burning herself, what objection could he have to flying across the desert? 

When she destroys the oasis guardian, his throat closes up. Less so because of the betrayal and more because that's one _more_ lead, one _more_ possibility, destroyed forever and _wasted_. After a few heartbeats worth of grief, he gathers the strength to call out to her. He realizes, almost in slow motion, the gravity of the mistake he's made.

When Aku names himself with the same husky voice he's grown accustomed to hearing from Ikra's lips, Jack can feel his blood run cold. A violent shiver sparks through him, making the blade shake in his grasp, his wrist trembling slightly despite his efforts. 

He yanks his head upwards again, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. The other tightens around the hilt of his sword.

Ikra -- _Aku_ \-- will have to die. It was already certain, but now it's _urgent_.


End file.
